[Unknown Number]: ngl. I kinda like it on you.
His new arm—the Scarlet Sovereign's jagged, molten prosthetic—clenched into a fist on its own. Blades slid out with a sharp shink, glinting under the harsh overhead lights.
This isn't happening.
His stump still burned where the prosthetic had fused to his flesh. It didn't feel like his arm anymore. It felt like a parasite. A weapon. A ticking bomb.
"Who the hell are you?!" Michael barked at the phone, his voice bouncing off the walls. The arm's blades retracted slightly, as if listening.
[Unknown Number]: no need to shout, kid. i've seen enough. now just go home.
Michael stared at the text. His new arm—a weaponized hunk of metal that spoke—twitched as rage boiled in his gut.
Go Home? This psycho thinks I can just… go back?!
The Curator's message glowed on his cracked phone screen, mocking him.
[Unknown Number]: ngl. I kinda like it on you.
Michael's bladed fingers dug into the steel wall, slicing through metal like butter. Schkkt. Sparks flew. He barely noticed.
"You planted this game on my phone," he snarled, thumb jabbing at the screen. "Made me fight dragons! Got Aiko nearly killed! And now you're like, 'lol go home'?!"
No answer.
The prosthetic arm buzzed, its runes pulsing crimson.
[QUERY: INITIATE COMBAT PROTOCOLS?]
"No!" Michael hissed.
The arm dimmed.
He paced the cramped room, breath fogging in the cold air. His sneakers crunched over debris from earlier explosions—scorched floor tiles, shattered glass, flecks of dried dragon blood.
Every cell in his body screamed wrongwrongwrong. The arm wasn't just attached—it moved like part of him. Muscle memory he didn't earn. Power he couldn't control.
And it talks. Great. So now I'm babysitting a murderous Roomba with daggers for fingers.
His phone buzzed again.
[Unknown Number]: U seem stressed. Take a Xanax.
Michael's vision blurred red. He punched the wall.
CRASH.
The steel dented inward, his prosthetic buried up to the elbow.
"Stop texting me and show your face!" he roared.
Silence. Then—
Clink. Clink. Clink.
A soda can rolled into the room from the hallway. Orange Fanta. Ice cold, beads of condensation glistening under the flickering lights.
Michael froze.
"Thirsty?" a voice drawled.
The screen flickered to life, showing a man leaned against the doorway—just as he saw from the screen mid-40s, gray suit.
The Curator.
"You," Michael spat.
"Me." The Curator popped open the Fanta, took a sip. "Nice arm. Matches your eyes."
Michael lunged.
The prosthetic shot out, fingers extending into serrated blades aimed at the man's throat. The Curator didn't flinch.
Clang.
The blades stopped an inch from his neck—blocked by… nothing. An invisible force vibrated in the air, rippling like heat haze.
"Rude." The Curator tutted. "I bring gifts, y'know."
"Gifts?" Michael's voice shook. "You turned me into a lab rat! That dragon—the Sovereign—Aiko's trapped in your sick game—"
"My game?" The Curator raised an eyebrow. "Oh no no no. I'm just a… facilitator. You think I'm smart enough to design realms? Pssh."
He waved the soda can dismissively. "I'm as clueless as you, kid."
Lies.
Michael's arm retracted. "Then who's running this?"
"Beats me. Ancient gods? Aliens? Your guess is as good as mine." The Curator focused on the dent Michael had punched into the wall. "All I know is you're fun to watch. Like a raccoon figuring out a microwave."
Michael's prosthetic twitched.
[QUERY: TERMINATE TARGET?]
Not helpful.
He forced his focus back on the Curator. "The realms. Talents. You mentioned them before. What's my number?"
The Curator shrugged. "Dunno."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" The man's grin didn't waver.
"Mason said you needed me for answers," Michael said coldly.
"And I got 'em!" The Curator pulled out a device and tapped the screen. A hologram flared to life, showing stats:
[NAME: Michael Cobb]
[REALM: Mortal (1st)]
[TALENT: #???]
[ESSENCE: 0]
"See?" The Curator gestured at the hologram. "You're a big fat question mark. No talent number. No essence. Just… zilch. Which means—"
"I'm an anomaly," Michael muttered.
"Bingo!" The Curator grinned. "So whatever freakshow gave you that arm?" He pointed at the prosthetic. "They messed up. You're not supposed to wield SSS-tier gear as a mortal. It's like giving a toddler a flamethrower."
Michael's fist clenched. "And Aiko?"
"What about her?"
"She's stuck in the game! If I quit—"
"She dies. Yeah." The Curator crumpled the soda can. "Sucks, right? But hey—play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Seems you got a knack for it."
Rage started to simmer in Michael's chest.
The Curator smirked. "So here's the deal: Go home. Hug your friends. Live your best one-armed life. This?" He waved at the hologram. "Isn't your circus."
"You are saying I could live a normal life with an arm like this?"
"Oh. I'm sure it has an invisible mode or sheath mode that you'd figure out in no time. Magical stuff tends to have those."
Michael raised his eyebrows, he looked at the Curator for a while, then raised his arm.
"Umm… Arm?"
[COMBAT MODE: STANDBY.]
[STATUS: AWAITING COMMAND.]
"Do you have a mode so I won't scare people 5 miles away?"
[QUERY: ACTIVATE INVISIBILITY MODE?]
"Yes!"
The prosthetic's runes dimmed to dying embers. Jagged plates folded inward with clockwork precision, collapsing like a dying star.
Michael watched in horrified fascination as blades retracted, molten seams sealed, and the entire arm compacted itself into a singularity of black light above his stump.
Shk-KOOM-thwump—
With a sound like a vacuum-sealed tomb, it winked out.
His right shoulder ended abruptly again in ragged scar tissue. He flexed nonexistent fingers - no phantom itch, no latent heat. Just the familiar hollow absence he'd carried since the crash.
The Curator whistled. "See? Good as new. Mostly."
Michael gripped his vanished forearm, feeling the prosthetic's presence coiled in his bones like a sleeping serpent. Waiting.
"You're a monster," Michael hissed.
"Nah." The Curator straightened his tie. "Monsters have standards. I'm just… entrepreneurial." He headed for the door. "Last chance, Cobb. Walk away."
"Or what?"
The Curator paused. For the first time, his smile faded. "Or you'll wish that dragon had eaten you."